Month: June 2008

I was going to post about Art being a “necessary deception”. I was going to raise important questions, and challenge established views. It was going to be stimulating and provocative. But I got distracted.

| Baz

Oba how is Code? Is he still deceiving women?

killa code

 Look at those sleazy porny eyes of his. That is the face of an illegitimate child factory. That is a man who believes he was put here to make your underage daughter repeatedly pregnant.

That is why I believe Moli when she says they didn’t have sex. If they did have sex, wouldn’t she be nursing his reptilian offspring as we speak?

Where is Moli, anyway? I miss her. I do. I, as the media, was heavily invested in the hope of a future of white-hot superstardom for her.

I live off celebrity puff-pieces so the more celebrities, the better. The Hype Machine a.k.a. Showbiz Media a.k.a. Consensus of Lies is a vampire, and it wanted to feed off Moli corpuscles.

Ah, the headlines we missed out on. How I would have loved to spray these: “Moli to Release Alt-Rock Album”, “Moli Launches Emo Fashion Line For Fat People”, “Moli To Star As Crazy Drug Addict Bitch in Nollywood Flick” and “Moli To Stand for Kawempe South Seat. On FDC Ticket, Naturally” across your newspapers.

Well, she did make Time Magazine. Take your nugu and choke on it!

Morgan Tsvi is absolutely NOT the biggest coward in Africa, in unrelated news. The fact is Zimbabwe needs a superhuman hero to save her: a titan. For who can take on a super-villain but a superhero? And who can blame a chap for not being that superhero? How can you hold it against a man that he is just an ordinary mortal after all? That is not the point right now. We rant about Mugabe on other people’s blogs (Like Carlo  and “27th Apologist). This is what I wanted you to see.

This is Rubi Tsvi. She could have been the Zim Kaine. First daughter. Adjust your opinion on the issue now.

 

I am sick of Beyonce

| Baz

Eybeybey

It is nothing personal, but are there no other superstars I can objectify by placing them on my computer desktop to look silently nice and smiley while I work?

Somebody needs to come up with a new person.

Yes, they “come up with” them. They are fabricated. Created. By forces outside of them. What you see here is not an actual human being—it is a work of fiction created through the collaboration of make-up artists, hair stylists, fitness trainers, publicists, computer graphics specialists, showbiz media, agents, managers and a little effort from a little Texan woman called Beyonce Giselle Knowles-Carter. A little effort. For the most part all she does is sit there and be subjected to transformation into an object.

ready for jelly

Music

| Baz

CBS FM eulogised Dr Sulaiman Kiggundu by plaing Candle In The Wind 98 in the background.
After speaking a bit on the life of the former banker, the presenter would rest and let Dame Elton sing. Then they would repeat. In the time it took me to get from Kyaliwajjala to work, I had heard the song no less than three and a half times.
It is, you will agree, slightly less than suitable a send off. England’s Rose?

It is times like this that we remember how important it is to leave no detail untouched when you write your will.

For the record then, when I die (or rather if I die. It has never been in the plan) let no one even think of playing any of the following next to my name.

Elton John
Celine Dion
Abba
Bob Marley
Puff Daddy
I do not like their music. Only play it if you want me to come back.

Hey, play This (t’s Tupac: Life Goes On) instead. Yeah. Sweet. 

 

(Pouring some liquor for The Old Fox)

 

 

Forward on. On forward.

| Baz

I imagine he is someone fat who likes button-down shirts and khaki pants. He probably wears a tie that hangs above his belly button and keeps his phone in a pouch strapped to his belt. I think he has a Katorchi and drives a blue-ish green Corolla. He probably keeps his hair short, has wobbly cheeks, laughs at his own jokes and suffers from egg-breath. Unfortunately I don’t know the guy at all, so the most I can do is imagine.

I have no idea who he is. But he sends me email forwards every single day.

I can understand the sentiment behind sending email forwards: People want to stay in touch with friends but are too busy or creatively bankrupt to craft individually-tailored messages. So they just bung all the names into one send string, stick on a jpeg of a fluffy bunny, attach and a bible verse and ship it off with all their love. I can understand the sentiment.

But the thing is, I don’t know this guy.

Who is he and why is he trying to stay in touch with me?

And more importantly, why every single day? 

He obviously doesn’t know me either. The people who know me don’t send me forwards. The reasons for this are clear to anyone who, sorry to belabour the point, actually knows me.

One is that I am an old hand at this. I have seen everything already. I dance the internet, as you can see above. I am the sort of insufferable bastard who will send you a snopes link debunking ever ludicrous emergency message you send. Forward to eighteen thousand people and Microsoft will donate a pony to little orphan girls in Afghanistan? I will snub my e-nose haughtily at you and put you in your place with one line:

www.Snopes.com

Send this to everyone in your country and your computer will develop the capacity of flight?

www.Snopes.com

God killed John Lenon because of a silly wisecrack and then sent tsunamis to drown Indonesians?

www.Snopes.com
Furthermore, I can’t stand those “inspirational stories.”
I detest the fluffy, pink, tutu-wearing, spangly-eared, so-saccharine-it’s-sickening sentimentality of those gooey forward messages about the old lady who had only four dollars left and then the stranger turned out to be an angel in the end and the sheep also did something and blah. I hate them so much every time I get one, I have to rewrite it to include some ninja decapitations and cannibalism. Just to restore the balance of sanity.

Plus: Dude sends the forwards with the subject line written badly. With the word good spelt as “gud”, for example.
Now, part of my work here in the Belly of The Beast Inc, involves copy-editing —  I am a professional corrector of spelling mistakes. Knowing this, how could anyone possibly send me deliberately miswritten words to read in my spare time? Who is this person?
I realise I am beginning to sound crabby. I am not that angry. Well, I am a little bit vastly irritated, but that is not because I bear any ill will whatsoever towards the chap sending me these things. It is only because I keep getting fucking lime-green bunny rabbits in my inbox!

And bulldogs wearing fucking pink wool socks!

  

 
When I would rather have the following:

  • The R. Kelly video in wmv format. I want to see for myself.
  • Some good music. Not shite, good music. Dizzy Gillespie. Send me Dizzy.
  • Size 1024 x768 photos of cool stuff. That is the size of my screen and I would like to use said photos as desktop wallpaper. I am bored of Beyonce and Rihanna and the Hulk and Iron Man. I want fresh wallpaper.
  • And links to stimulating and entertaining pages I can dance on the web. Like Ken Lee. Heh heh. I liked Ken Lee.

I know what you are thinking. You are thinking: “Baz, see that little button in the corner with the letters D.E.L.E.T. and E on it?”

Yes, I know. But it is not that I don’t want to delete the emails, it is that I want them to stop coming.

Should I reply one, asking the chap to cut it the hell out for crying out loud dammit before I am forced to hunt him down with my gangos from the hood? Or should I be more circumspect?

I was thinking of something like:

Sir,

Please stop sending me email forwards. Some of them are way gay. Thank you in advance.

Or do you think:

Sir,

What the hell did I ever do to you?  Is this revenge for something? Saggy, is that you emailing under a false name?

  Is better?

Let me think.